


The BDSM Photography Project

by WeirdLittleStories



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek, Star Trek RPF
Genre: BDSM, Beating, Dom!Nimoy, F/M, Flogging, No Sex, Whipping, sub!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdLittleStories/pseuds/WeirdLittleStories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Premise:  An actor-turned-photographer uses his most famous character to locate models for a photography project that will document a BDSM scene.  </p><p>(This is a STORY, not a set of pictures; the story is ABOUT the pictures that will be taken, and no photos are included.)</p><p>Written in the second person so that any reader can imagine herself in the role of model/bottom.  (This is my first time writing in the second person, so this is decidedly an experiment.  It's also my first time writing Actor RPF, so I guess the story can be considered experimental all the way around. :-D)</p><p>There's no sex in this story, because that's a line I won't cross when writing about real people, especially since the person in question is reported to be happily married.  Not saying that people who DO write about sex with real people are bad, just that that's where my own personal line is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The BDSM Photography Project

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Since this story is about a real person, I want to doubly emphasize the fact that this is just a fictional story, NOT a report of anything that actually happened. Although I've tried to make my story consistent with the known facts of the actor-turned-photographer's life, I have created that person's actions in this story — as well as his interest in BDSM — completely from thin air. The facts of his life are taken from his published autobiographies; I have no personal knowledge of the man in question, and (sadly) we have never met.
> 
> 2\. The BDSM scene is limited to flogging. I thought this didn't qualify for the "Graphic Depictions of Violence" warning, but if a consensual flogging would upset you, then you shouldn't read this story.
> 
> 3\. This story is written in the second person so that any reader who wishes to can imagine herself there. In other words, this is a Mary Sue for everyone. :-) (But see Note #4 below.)

* * *

**The BDSM Photography Project**

**by Weird Little Stories**

 

You walk into the BDSM club and survey the interior. The ground floor is filled with gyrating bodies, dancing to the heavy beat of the music. The balcony is almost untenanted; it appears to be occupied solely by a tall, spare figure wearing a plain black mask. The masked man — if you squint, you can tell that the figure is male — has a visible aura of containment about him, as he stands perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back. The contrast between the still man on the balcony and the gyrating bodies below couldn't be greater if the man had painted himself in glowing neon.  
  
Something about the way the man on the balcony is standing looks tantalizingly familiar. There's nothing for you on the lower level, anyway, and you edge your way through the dancing throng, then climb the stairs to the balcony. The man unclasps his hands as you approach, resting his hands on the balcony railing instead, in a way that looks very deliberate, as if the movement means something. You come to stand beside him, not close enough to crowd him unduly, but close enough to be heard over the music.  
  
Now that you're closer, you can see that the man is elderly. Even with the mask on, enough of his face is visible to make this clear, though his stance and the movement of his hands are both graceful enough that it's clear he's not doddering. He wears a braided flogger on his left hip, signaling that he's a top looking to flog someone, and given that the flogger is braided, he's probably looking for a fairly heavy scene.  
  
You think for a moment about what to say to him. If this is who you think it is, you'll run the danger of being tongue-tied around him. And isn't that ironic? You're normally so verbal that you joke that an analysis of your DNA would show you to be made up of words instead of the usual chemicals, but a single look from _this_ man could reduce you to undignified fangirl squeeing, and you know it.  
  
The mask tells you that he's here incognito, but his taking the stance of his most famous character suggests that he does want to be recognized. Perhaps he wants to be recognized only by the discerning? You don't know if you are that, though you do know that you've certainly observed both the man and his alter ego quite carefully over the years.  
  
"Good Evening," you say, deciding to go for basic politeness, rather than trying to be clever.  
  
"Good Evening," he responds, and oh, yeah, you'd recognize that voice anywhere. Even aged, there's no other voice like it.  
  
He's not trying to disguise his voice. Maybe he can't? No, he's a great actor; he could surely disguise his voice if he wanted to. Maybe he thinks no one will recognize his famous voice now that it's older? Or maybe he does want to be recognized, just not by everybody. There's no one in earshot but you, and the purposeful way you made for him probably told him that you'd already half-recognized him.  
  
You don't want to say his name aloud, nor do you want to mention Spock or _Star Trek._ For one thing, the poor guy has been importuned by _Star Trek_ fans everywhere he goes for 47 years now, and he deserves a break. From everything you hear, he's been gracious and more than gracious for a long time now, and he should get a lifetime exemption from being harassed by fans. For another thing, you want to show that you know more about him than just the identity of his most famous alter ego. But you don't want to sound like a creepy stalker chick, either. Hmm. Photography is probably your best bet here.  
  
"It's a pity the club doesn't allow photography," you say, "since I bet you could get some interesting shots once the dancing dies down and the play begins."  
  
"Even in the play areas, the lighting isn't right for the kind of photographs I'd like to take," he replies. An eyebrow rises above the mask — a normal, round, human eyebrow — and he adds, "I gather you've recognized me as ... a person who does photography."  
  
You chuckle, and you see him relax somewhat. No, you aren't going to ask for autographs or crap like that. You want to give to this man, not take from him, and you want to give him only what HE wants, not the story of how much he's meant to you over the years — no matter how much you'd like to share that with him — because he's heard that sort of thing far too much already.  
  
"You were signaling for someone who recognized you," you say. "The way you were standing when I walked in here isn't the way you stand normally; it's the stance of ..."  
  
He tenses again, and you make a soothing gesture with your hand. You won't say that name aloud; saying it could get him recognized, and neither of you wants that. You end your sentence with "your most famous alter ego," and he relaxes again.  
  
"Frankly, I wasn't sure it would work," he says, and you're charmed by his modesty.  
  
"Have you tried this before," you ask, "or is this the first time?"  
  
"I tried it once in Los Angeles, but the results were ... poor. I thought I'd try my hometown this time around."  
  
"You've lived in California for sixty years, and you still consider Boston your hometown?" you ask, genuinely a little surprised.  
  
"Of course," he replies, and the ease with which he claims Boston as his own charms you again.  
  
"What brings you to the club?" you ask.  
  
"You're right that I want to take photographs, and you're right that I don't want to be generally recognized. I'm looking for a temporary partner, a woman who will accompany me to my studio and let me take photographs there."  
  
"What kind of pictures?" you ask.  
  
"Images of a scene and its aftermath. Photographs of a flogger striking flesh, photographs of that flesh as it becomes bruised, photographs of the bruises over time as they change colors, then ultimately fade."  
  
Ah, that's why he wanted to be recognized, then. It would be stupid for a woman to leave the club with a man she just met, even an elderly man. But he is widely loved and widely trusted; you'd do anything he asked in a heartbeat, as would half the people you know, and it sounds as if he's aware of that. Well, you've read both of his autobiographies. You know he doesn't just play intelligent and thoughtful on TV; he actually _is_ intelligent and thoughtful.  
  
"What kind of partner are you looking for?" you ask.  
  
"Someone who knows enough about me to trust me is the first criterion," he says.  
  
"I've read ..." you start, and he tenses again, because of course both of his autobiographies contain that name that neither of you is saying. "... Both of your autobiographies with the mutually contradictory names," you conclude, and again he relaxes.  
  
"Nicely done," he says. "We know what we're talking about, but there are certain words I'd rather we didn't speak aloud."  
  
"I have no interest in getting you mobbed," you say, trying your best to let your sincerity come across. Of course, he's accustomed to hanging out with actors, any of whom probably _fake_ sincerity better than you convey the real thing.  
  
He nods, then says, "Obviously, I'm looking for someone who will sign a release form that allows me to take photographs and to show those images if I decide they're good enough."  
  
You nod and wait for him to speak again. Part of you wants to babble endlessly at him, but an even stronger part wants to preserve both your dignity and his, and you content yourself with that single nod.  
  
"As you may have gathered from what I said before, the kind of photographs I want to take will require that my partner bottom to a fairly heavy scene. My partner will have a safeword, of course, and I would never do anything against her will. But I don't want to waste time going to my studio and setting up if I can't take the complete set of photographs."  
  
"That all makes sense," you say calmly.  
  
"Part of the series is the bruises as they heal, so the model needs to be willing to return to the studio once a day for a week or so."  
  
"A reasonable requirement," you say, and you wonder if you're erring a bit too much on the side of dignity, since you're almost never this laconic.  
  
"Eventually, I would like to take a similar series of photographs with models of several different skin tones, but for the first set, while I'm still figuring out exactly how this project will work, I want to use a very light-skinned model, so that the bruises will show up as clearly as possible."  
  
Both of you glance down at your pale, pale skin, and you catch his eye and smile at him.  
  
"I know that you've done both classic nudes and The Full Body Project," you say. "Are you looking for a particular body type for your flogging series?"  
  
"I haven't decided what range of body types I want to use for this series yet," he says. "The first set of photographs is really a pilot project, to help me figure out what the parameters will be. I'd like the pilot model to be relatively full-figured, so I know that she has enough padding to take a hard beating without serious damage."  
  
You smile at him, slightly snarkily. "And luckily for you, fandom just happens to be full of that particular body type."  
  
He chuckles. "It did seem as if an appropriate model could be found fairly easily, yes."  
  
You turn to him. "We're not actually speaking hypothetically, are we?"  
  
The relaxed chuckle again. "I'm not, are you?"  
  
"No." You smile into what you can see of his eyes behind the mask. "No, I'm not."  
  
He clears his throat and says, "There's a concern I'd like to raise and something I'd like to clarify."  
  
"I'm all ears," you say, then smack yourself in the forehead at your mentioning a word that he might be sensitive to.  
  
He laughs loudly at your reaction. "It's okay," he says. "I'm a lot more comfortable with things now than I was when I wrote those books."  
  
You grin sheepishly at him. "I had gotten that impression, yes," you say. "It's nice to see. I was ... sad ... that it cost you so much to bring him to life for us."  
  
He gives you a sunny smile and says, "I have no regrets."  
  
"I'm glad," you say. "So, a concern and a clarification?"  
  
"Yes. The concern is hard to phrase without sounding egotistical, and I suppose the clarification is, too. I hope you won't take this the wrong way."  
  
"If anyone would believe you have cause for an inflated ego, it is I," you say, "But I found your autobiographies to be refreshingly non-smug."  
  
"Okay," he says. "I, ah, have reason to believe that some of the people who know me only through my work may be disposed to ... allow me greater latitude than is good for them. So I've decided to ask potential models about their past BDSM scenes. What's the heaviest scene you've ever done?"  
  
You smile at him, impressed by his understanding of the ethics of asking for a heavy scene from a fan, given that so many of his fans have undoubtedly declared that they would do "anything" for this man.  
  
You describe the heaviest scene you've ever done, your reaction to it, and the desires it gave you for future scenes, and he listens intently with his eyes on your face, weighing your words and gauging your reply. He's undoubtedly seen many good actors and even more bad actors over the years, and lying is just a form of acting, after all, so perhaps he can tell when people are telling the truth. In any case, you can't act to save your life, and you tell him the truth about your experience. He seems to believe you.  
  
He nods. "It sounds as if what I want to do will stretch you slightly, but in an exciting, growthful way, not in a bad or traumatizing way."  
  
"Yes," you agree. "You're right that I would stretch myself more than would be good for me if you wanted that, but I don't think this will."  
  
He's not fazed by your admission; nearly fifty years of dealing with fans exactly like you has prepared him for anything you could say. You know that you're a special snowflake only in your own mind, and that the man in front of you has been dealing with a veritable blizzard of those snowflakes for decades. You find yourself amazed all over again at the dignity and grace with which he has dealt with the reaction _Star Trek_ fans have to him. You hope Mr. Quinto will deal even half so well ... or will be worthy of even half of the affection and respect that this man commands.  
  
"The clarification is about what's involved and what I can give you. I'm offering only to beat you severely and to care for you afterward; there's no other ... form of contact involved."  
  
You're charmed again at his gentle delicacy. Truly, it was not for nothing that you chose this particular man to admire, not just his most famous character but he, himself. "I know you're looking for a model and temporary play partner, not a friend or a sex partner. Being beaten severely by you is already more of an honor than I ever thought to have," you say.  
  
He gives you a mischievous grin and says, in a Groucho Marx impression that's so bad it has to be _intentionally_ bad, waggling an imaginary cigar in the air, "Let's hope it's still an honor when I get done bruising you all to hell!"  
  
You gasp, aroused at the idea of being 'bruised all to hell' by him, and he knows what your gasp means and smiles at you. "If you still want to play after getting bad Groucho, then you're tough enough to go the distance," he jokes.  
  
You laugh out loud, even though it's not all that funny, mostly to relieve your own tension, because you're negotiating a scene with ... the man whose name you aren't saying.  
  
"Photography models are usually paid," he says, "But although there's no sex involved, the fact that I will be beating you makes paying you problematic, since to a certain kind of cop, it could look too much like prostitution."  
  
You start to protest that you need no payment, that he's already given you something you value tremendously, in that character whose name neither of you is speaking, but he holds up a hand to silence you, and you shut up.  
  
"So I'll offer you a deal — my time for yours. I'll start a timer when the scene begins, and when the scene ends, I'll owe you that many minutes. You can use that time to make use of my photography skills; for example, I can take a fully-clothed photograph of you that you could use for a resume or an artsy photograph of you for you to hang on your wall or give to your boyfriend or girlfriend. Or we could just shoot the breeze for that number of minutes."  
  
You feel uncomfortable with the deal he's described and shake your head. "I don't want you to talk to me as _payment._ If you wouldn't want to talk to me normally, then don't. You mentioned prostitution, and I don't want you _paid for,_ not even as a conversation partner."  
  
He gives you a sweeter, more genuine smile this time, and you realize that what just happened between you was a test. How many times has he been burned over the years? How cautious does he have to be? You feel sad, once again, that bringing Spock to life has cost him so much.  
  
He reads your face effortlessly and pats you on the back. "It's okay," he says. "Really. I have no regrets." He pauses. "Well, except that I regret that I had to put you through that. Forgive me, but life has taught me that this kind of thing is necessary."  
  
"I understand," you say, though your understanding is purely an intellectual one. Much of the world worships and desires fame, and you've never understood the appeal, because fame has always sounded like pure hell to you. Sure, being recognized and fawned over must be great fun for the first day or two ... but after that, it sounds AWFUL. You've been a big fish in a small pond a couple of times, and that's about your speed — having a few hundred people think you're cool is swell. Having millions of people want a piece of you, the very idea makes you want to scream and hide under the bed.  
  
"Is now a good time for you," he asks, "or should we make an appointment for a future time?"  
  
You look at him shyly. "Now would be best," you say. "If I have time to think about it, I'll get too nervous."  
  
He looks at you searchingly. "Thinking about what we would be doing would make you that nervous?"  
  
You give him an impish grin. "No," you say. "Thinking about who I would be doing it WITH."  
  
"Ah," he says gently. "Yes, I understand."  
  
He whips out a cell phone and calls a taxi, and the two of you walk downstairs and work your way through the crowd to the front door. Your ears ring once you get into the hush outside, and you take a deep breath of the marginally fresher air.  
  
"Finally, I can hear myself think," you say, wondering after you've said it if casual inanities are really what you want to be voicing here. But you'd already decided against fangirl squeeing or other fangirlish activities — no personal questions, no Star Trek questions, no raptures about his skill, no raptures about what a pleasure it is to meet him, no personal stories about how Mr. Spock saved your life when you were a troubled adolescent. Inanities are probably your best bet, after all.  
  
"Yes," he answers. "I'm glad I didn't have to stay there long before you showed up."  
  
The taxi arrives, and you both get into the back seat. He takes off his mask, to the taxi driver's apparent relief, and gives the address of his studio. You turn to him as the cab starts to move. "You have a photography studio here in Boston?" you ask. "Don't you live in California still?"  
  
"There are enough short-term photography projects going on in the city that it's easy to rent a well-equipped studio by the month when I'm in town. Plus the owner is someone I grew up with, so he's understanding about my needing to rent space on the fly."  
  
"That's good," you say. "Um, if there are a lot of studios in the same building, how many of them are likely to be occupied at this hour? I can be, uh, kind of vocal during a heavy scene."  
  
"Excellent," he says. "I was hoping to take photographs of screaming, as well, but I didn't want to say that initially, since I didn't want my model to feel as if she were _required_ to scream."  
  
The part of you that's a long-term BDSM player understands completely why he would want photographs of screaming to be part of his BDSM series. But you find your mind flashing to what McCoy would say if he heard Spock say, "Screaming would be desirable, as I wish to photograph this activity," and you start laughing.  
  
"What?" he says.  
  
"I often get sort of a double vision, where I see some situation both from the perspective of someone who's into the Scene and from an outsider's perspective," you explain.  
  
"Yes," he agrees, "I sometimes do that, too. What about this one is funny?"  
  
"Well, instead of the usual outsider's perspective, I got it from the perspective of one particular outsider. Um, excuse my mentioning him, but I was thinking about what McCoy would say if he could hear you say, 'Oh, yeah, I want to take your picture while you're screaming.'"  
  
He laughs. "No need to apologize for mentioning something that's been a big part of both of our lives. And you're right, now that you mention it, I can just hear the good doctor scolding me for being cold-blooded."  
  
You laugh together and are surprised at the ease you feel with him. You're pretty sure it's not due to anything you've done; he's just that relaxed and self-accepting these days, in addition to being as gracious as he's always been.  
  
He goes on to answer the question you'd asked. "My landlord has one studio that's soundproofed, because some photography projects use barking dogs or musicians blowing tubas or all kinds of other noisy things. I told him I needed the soundproofed studio when I rented from him this time around, and he didn't ask any questions. You can scream to your heart's content."  
  
Away from the ambience of the BDSM club, talking about photography studios, it starts to feel more about pictures and less about a scene. You find this subtly disturbing and turn to him. "Can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Of course," he says. "What do you need to know?"  
  
"Is it 100% about the pictures, or will you enjoy beating me?"  
  
"I am taking the photographs to document an activity I enjoy. I couldn't have done this while I was trying to make it as an actor, and later on, I didn't want to sully the character of Spock with something the world misjudges. But I'm old enough now that people think it's cute if I have a sexual thought in my head. And I've handed Spock on, to Zachary Quinto, and I can use my elder-statesman reputation to normalize something that's still viewed strangely."  
  
"You're doing this as a BDSM activist?" you ask.  
  
"I wouldn't do it FOR that reason. I want to do it because the idea appeals to me as a photographer; it's a bonus that it might open some minds at the same time."  
  
"I see," you say. "So, you will enjoy beating me. It won't just be an exercise in light and shadow and F-stops."  
  
"My dear," he says in a deeper, darker voice than you've heard so far, "I intend to enjoy the hell out of beating you. And I hope you scream the house down."  
  
You shiver, then take a deep breath. "Yes," you whisper, and you feel those well-known dark eyes on your face, noting your reaction.  
  
The taxi pulls up in front of a tall, red-brick building, and you exit the cab as he pays the driver. As the car pulls away, he swipes a card through the security box, then types in a code. You catch the door as it opens and hold it open for him.  
  
"Holding the door for me," he says jokingly. "Are we doing D/S as well as S/M, then?"  
  
"You're the photographer, I'm the model," you say. "You're the big star, I'm the nobody. You're older, richer, taller, male, and more expert. Name a type of power in American society, and you have more of it than I do. I think we're doing D/S whether we plan to or not."  
  
"One of the things I've always loved about Boston is how well-educated the population is," he says reflectively, and you smile at him.  
  
You walk into the lobby, and he pushes the button for the elevator, which opens immediately, since it was already on the ground floor. The two of you enter it, and he pushes the button for the top floor. "It was easier to soundproof the topmost studio," he says, "Since it was already partly isolated."  
  
You nod. "Makes sense," you say, feeling a little nervous now that you're alone with him.  
  
He gives you a slightly mischievous look, then holds out a hand. "I don't think we've been formally introduced," he says, then pronounces his name. You shake his hand and tell him your name, and he calls you by it and says, "Pleased to meet you."  
  
You relax and smile at him. There's nothing between you from his end, but there's a lot between you from yours, and really, that will be enough. You can do something for him, give him something that he wants, and that will give you something that you want. It's okay if you're just a pale and compliant body that he can flog and photograph; if that's what he wants, he can have it.  
  
The elevator door opens, and the two of you exit it, as he gestures to the right. You turn in that direction, and he unlocks the door and turns on the overhead lights in the studio. There's equipment all around, half of it lights and half of it various contraptions for positioning the lights just so. There's also a St. Andrew's Cross and a massage table in the center of the space, with various lights positioned to point at them, plus one camera on a tripod pointed at the cross, another at the table. A futon in one corner and a locker in another complete the furnishings.  
  
"I forgot to ask," he says. "Can you do a heavy scene standing up, or will you need to lie down?"  
  
"I do have a tendency to fall over if I do a heavy scene standing, but if you're stopping to take photographs frequently, this scene will be much more spaced out than the ones I'm accustomed to doing. I _might_ be able to do it standing up if that would work better for you."  
  
"Since this is really a pilot project, part of what I want to figure out is whether I'll get better images with the model standing or with her lying down. So if you're game, we can start with you standing, then switch you to lying halfway through."  
  
"That works for me!" you say.  
  
"Neither of us has mentioned bondage," he says. "Do you need it to be able to bottom?"  
  
"No," you say. "In fact, I prefer not to have it."  
  
"Good," he says. I want the focus to be on the flogger or the bruises, not on ropes or cuffs, so I prefer not to have bondage for this shoot, either."  
  
He turns on the lights around both the St. Andrew's Cross and the massage table, then turns back to you. "What's your safeword?"  
  
"I don't say things I don't mean during a scene," you say, "So a special safeword isn't completely required. But since we're going to stretch me a bit, maybe we could go with the 'red' and 'yellow' convention?"  
  
"'Red' means stop, and 'yellow' means lighten up a little," he says, checking to make sure you're on the same page.  
  
"Right," you say.  
  
He gestures towards a locker in the corner of the room. "You can put your clothes in there. Not that anyone would take them if you left them out; it's just easier to find them again, what with all the stuff in here."  
  
You walk over to the locker, then take off your clothes. You're a little nervous at being seen naked by someone who's accustomed to Hollywood actresses, but you remind yourself how gentle and respectful he was with the women in the Fat Bottom Revue, who are about as far from the Hollywood actress type as a woman can get. Clearly you don't have to look like a starlet for him to treat you like a person.  
  
Once your clothes are stored in the locker, he says, "Come stand next to the cross so I can adjust the lights," and you stand naked in front of the cross while he raises the lights by several inches, looking closely at your skin several times, then making a minute adjustment to the lights. When he finishes, you head to the massage table without his asking you, lying face down on it with your toes hanging over the bottom edge.  
  
"A cooperative subject," he says, with a hint of teasing in his voice, and you turn your head towards him and smile. "Not for everyone, just for you," you say, and as before, he accepts your hints of devotion gracefully, with a small smile.  
  
He fiddles with the lights around the massage table even longer; at one point, he presses a finger into your upper back, examines the result, moves the light half an inch, then presses a finger into you again.  
  
"I couldn't set the lights exactly before you got here," he says apologetically, "Because I didn't know how tall you would be or how much your skin would reflect the light."  
  
"That's okay," you say. "This massage table is pretty comfy, and I'm not in any hurry."  
  
He pokes your back one more time and makes yet another adjustment to the lights, then declares himself satisfied with the lighting. "If you would stand against the cross now," he says, and you get up from the table, walk back to the cross, and drape yourself against it, clutching the sides of it for support.  
  
He looks through the first camera, moves it closer to the cross, changes the angle slightly, then fiddles with the settings. When the camera is exactly how he wants it, he picks up the remote-control for the camera and stuffs it in his left pocket. He goes to the second camera and changes it from pointing at the massage table to pointing at the side of the cross, at head level. Oh. He really meant it about photographing your screams, and the idea is a little daunting. If he were anybody else, you might object to that, but as it is, you decide to simply not think about it too hard. He fiddles with the second camera for a bit, then puts its remote into his right-hand pocket.  
  
He looks at you; he seems to be ready to begin. Suddenly slightly nervous, you turn your head to look at him. "You'll warm me up first?" you ask.  
  
"Of course," he says, then pauses and clears his throat. He sounds slightly hesitant as he says, "Is there a particular attitude you need me to adopt so that you can bottom successfully?"  
  
"I don't need you to pretend to be Spock, if that's what you mean," you say. "And I don't like the arrogant assholes that so many male dominants either are or pretend to be, so you needn't put on your asshole hat, either. I usually like playing with people's real selves, or as much of their real selves as they're willing to let out." You pause and think for a moment, and he lets you. "I think what I want most from you is that I be able to tell that you're enjoying what we're doing. When a scene gets heavy, I tend to rely on the top's enjoyment to help me get through it. Is there a persona that _you_ need, to be able to feel like a top or to have a good time?"  
  
He shakes his head. "I used to put on personae for a living, and I greatly prefer being myself in my private life whenever possible. I'm usually softer and sweeter when I'm not topping, so I suppose you could say that topping brings out my meaner or more dominant side, but ..." He pauses and chuckles softly at himself, "That side is not so very mean and not so very dominant."  
  
You smile at him, pleased that he's sharing something of his real self with you. "That suits me just fine" you say, and he nods, then turns to a small table next to the cross and opens the box full of toys that sits atop it.  
  
He brings out a deerhide flogger and begins to beat you with it, hard enough to make sure it feels thuddy, not stingy.  
  
"Mmm, deerhide," you say. "It's like being flogged with melted butter."  
  
He chuckles. "I've never heard it expressed quite that way before, but you're right; that captures the experience."  
  
He beats you slowly with the deerhide flogger for several minutes, and you relax into the warm up and stop wondering what you should say, stop worrying about impressing him. You've started, he's beating you; for the next hour or so, all you need to do is _feel._ You reflect idly on the amusement value of being made to feel by the one who used to be Spock, but you're drifting on the sensation too much to hold that thought, and it slips gently away. You hear the click of the shutter as he takes photographs using the remote, timing the photos to catch the image of the deerhide flogger against your back.  
  
He stops for a moment and puts a hand on your back briefly to ground you, then starts flogging you with something big, heavy and thumpy. _Moosehide,_ you think. _It must be moosehide._ "Feels like being hit with a soft baseball bat," you say dreamily, and you hear his soft laugh, but he doesn't answer you in words. You're impressed that an 82-year-old man is up to wielding a moosehide flogger, even one of the smaller ones, but that thought drifts away on the stream you're floating on, and you lay your head dreamily against the cross and smile beatifically. You'd forgotten all about the camera when you hear the shutter click again, and you muzzily decide not to worry about it; the camera is his job.  
  
He stops, then runs a hand down your back. When he starts up again, the flogger is harsher; unlike the first two, this one actually hurts. He's warmed you up well, though, and you're ready for it to hurt. _Suede,_ you think, and you begin grunting with every blow. "Good," he says, and you think to yourself that you'd asked him to let you know that he was having a good time, and he's careful to do that as soon as it starts to hurt. He beats you with the suede flogger for a long time, and he takes photographs in batches, two or three shots at a time, then another dozen blows before the next set.  
  
The flogging stops for a bit, and you hear him take more photographs of your back, moving the camera around to get more angles than he could get with the camera on the tripod. You think dreamily that you're glad you've worked up some bruises for him; that must be why your back feels sore. Again you feel his hand stroke your back, and you know that means a new flogger.  
  
The next blow feels as if it _bites_ your back, and you scream lightly. "Yes!" he says, and you think _Good top_ to yourself, then the bite comes again. _This must be the braided one,_ you think, and you know you've taken braided floggers before, but this one feels especially harsh. You'll have to ask him what the damned thing is made of, when this is all over.  
  
He hits you harder, and you scream more loudly, and this is where you need his help the most. You're no longer floating on the pleasure of the warm up, but you're not yet out of your mind and nothing but a screaming body, either. You're still in both your body _and_ your mind, and it _hurts,_ damn it, and you know it'll get good again if you can just get through this part and out to the other side. You turn your head and look at him, and the sight of that face — gorgeous even in old age, beloved even though it's so different from the face you fell in love with at the age of eleven — steadies you.  
  
He's done this before, and he can tell what you need. "Your back is beautiful already," he says, "But it will be even more lovely when I've added yet more purple to it." You smile at him, and he returns a smile that's sweeter than any you've seen on any other top's face but darker and more feral than any you've seen on his face today. You shiver at the look, and he seems to recall what produced your last shiver, because he leans close to you and growls, "I'm going to beat you until your screams are coming up from your _soul,_ and I'm going to love every minute of it." You shudder and turn your head back to the cross, holding his enjoyment in your mind as he beats you hard.  
  
You aren't even registering the clicks of the camera anymore, though you do notice the occasional pause in the beating. After the most recent pause, he says, "I want you lying down," and he helps you stagger over to the massage table, then arranges both you and the cameras until everything is positioned exactly how he wants it.  
  
The beating starts again, and while it still hurts, it's easier to take when you don't have to stand up. And then the miracle of flogging occurs, and you're flying, no longer in your busy, thinky mind, but reduced to a screaming body. You relax completely under the blows, screaming with all your might at every blow, not thinking, not even really feeling, just existing and screaming. It is only at times like this that you don't feel made up at least as much of words as of flesh, and the flesh, tormented, sets the mind free.  
  
The beating continues for quite some time, but you're flying so high that the time passes quickly. Eventually he says, "The flogging is over, but I need you to hold still for awhile longer, because I have more photographs to take."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere without help," you murmur fuzzily, and he chuckles.  
  
"Rest," he says, "And I'll help you to the futon for aftercare when I'm finished with the photographs."  
  
"That's fiiiine," you say dreamily, and you think you might hear him laugh softly. You hear his footsteps, the clicking of the camera, and the scraping of equipment against the floor, but the sounds all seem far away and unimportant, and you think fuzzily that holding still has never been easier.  
  
Eventually the clicking and equipment noises stop, and you feel his hand on your back again, grounding you in reality. "Come lie down on the futon," he says, and he helps you as you stagger to it and collapse on it. You're surprised when he lies down next to you and puts an arm around you. Aftercare is the duty of a good top, of course, but tops who are in great demand are sometimes cavalier about it. You snuggle into his arm and sigh slightly, wishing you weren't so out of it that you won't really remember this tomorrow.  
  
"Do you want a blanket?" he asks.  
  
"No," you say. "The lights were so hot that I actually need to cool down more than I need to warm up."  
  
"Water?"  
  
"Yes, please," you say, and he hands you a liter of Poland Spring. You sit up long enough to drain it, then half lie, half fall back down. He chuckles at your state and says, "You're done to a turn, aren't you?"  
  
"Completely fried," you agree and close your eyes and drift for awhile.  
  
He doesn't hurry you, and when the endorphins have dissipated a bit, you start to worry that you're taking too long, start to wonder if he had a good time, start to think about the pictures, start to wish that you could tell all your friends who just beat the hell out of you, but of course you don't want to compromise his privacy. Ah, yes. Your mind is back. That ever-so-busy mind that usually feels like a hamster running on a wheel. Well, the peace was nice while it lasted.  
  
"I think I can make it home now," you say. "Do taxis drive down this street at this hour of the night, or should I call one?"  
  
"I'll call you one," he says, and and he stands up, walks a few steps away, and calls for a taxi.  
  
You sit up and test your equilibrium for a moment before standing up, moving to the locker, and getting dressed.  
  
When you're dressed again, you turn to him, and he takes your hand and says, "Thank you, my dear; you were an excellent subject. I can't wait to see how the photographs turn out." He squeezes your hand slightly and drops it.  
  
You smile shyly at him, feeling a bit awkward now that you're both back in everyday mode. "It was my pleasure, sir, truly. Even if I didn't already admire you, I'd play with you; you're ... very good at that."  
  
He smiles at you and inclines his head graciously. "I'm gratified to hear it." He pauses for a moment, then continues with, "You remember we talked about follow-up photographs?"  
  
"Yes," you say. "You wanted to take pictures of the bruises as they heal, once a day, if I remember correctly?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
"I should come here?"  
  
"Yes," he says. "What time tomorrow would work for you?"  
  
"It's the weekend, so I don't have work, but if you want the follow-ups roughly 24 hours apart, then it should probably be at a time I can make after work. Is 6 p.m. okay?"  
  
"That's perfect," he says. "I should have contact sheets ready by then, if you'd like to see them."  
  
You smile at him, happy that he wants to share his work with you. "I'd love to see them," you say.  
  
"Until 6 o'clock, then," he says and walks you out to the elevator.  
  
You're surprised when he gets into the elevator with you, and he says, "This is a pretty safe building, but you're still a little wobbly; I'll see you safely into the taxi, if you don't mind."  
  
"That's sweet of you," you say, and he smiles.  
  
The taxi pulls up as you exit the elevator, and you give him a blinding smile as you open the front door and walk slightly unsteadily onto the street. Your back is hot and sore and feels swollen, and it's that way because of _him._ Life is amazing.  
  
He stands at the front door of the building, watching you get into the cab, and as you sit down and turn back to look at him, he gives you a gift: he raises his hand in the Vulcan salute. He holds it as your cab drives away, whisking you back to your normal life, which is enriched by this fleeting contact with a man you'll always admire.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I feel a bit embarrassed about having written that, so if you liked it, I do hope that you'll let me know. :-}
> 
> 2\. You can find out more about Leonard Nimoy's photography at <http://www.rmichelson.com/Artist_Pages/Nimoy/pages/Leonard-Nimoy-Gallery.html>
> 
> 3\. Mr. Nimoy's two autobiographies are 1975's [_I Am Not Spock_](http://www.amazon.com/Am-Not-Spock-Leonard-Nimoy/dp/1568496915/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1383778553&sr=1-2&keywords=i+am+spock) and 1995's [_I Am Spock_](http://www.amazon.com/I-Am-Spock-Leonard-Nimoy/dp/0786861827/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1383778553&sr=1-1&keywords=i+am+spock).
> 
> 4\. I apologize to male readers, readers of color, and skinny readers for writing a "reader" that leaves them out. I tried to make the "you" character a complete cipher, and the story just didn't work that way, so I had to assign her some characteristics. I used the characteristics that are especially common among Mr. Nimoy's strongest fans, but I realize that these characteristics don't apply to everyone, and I'm sorry for that.


End file.
